A Game of Chicken
by IrishCreamTruffle
Summary: A show of masculinity this misguided was bound to end poorly. SLASH! AMBREIGNS. (Dean Ambrose/Roman Reigns)


_Hey guys! I'm back with a new one! _

_This is a touch different from my usual fics—I hope you all still like. I've generally written inside the same general universe until now, but this one exists on the outside. I actually have to say that this story came from me the most organically of all the things I've written so far; it really possessed me. Be warned, there is some extreme play in this fic (I can't tell you what it is; that would ruin the surprise)—I don't find it to be incredibly major but hey! The heads up is there just in case you do. _

_A huge thank you to everyone who came out and supported all my earlier fics. I've had the honor and pleasure of getting to thank some of you one-on-one; for the others I didn't get to address rightfully—THANK YOU! And a very big thanks to the lovely and talented MxJoyride for doing the beta read on this. _

_Obligatory disclaimer: I'm not claiming any of this is true. It's all my increasingly twisted imagination. I don't own anyone and I don't make any money off this (but oh, if I did….) _

_Feelzy soundtrack coming your way _

"_**Back to Your Heart," **__Dinosaur Jr.; __**"She Made Me," "Hide & Seek," "That Girl Suicide, "Anemone," "There's a War Going On," **__Brian Jonestown Massacre; __**"The Gun," **__Lou Reed._

.-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Taking Ambrose up on his offer really had been a _terrible_ idea. But when Dean had looked at him like that, blue eyes sparkling with innocence so poorly feigned that it was endearing, Roman was powerless to say no.

"_What about you, Rollins? Want to make this a full Shield venture? Tear up Vegas for the weekend before tearing up Elimination Chamber?" Dean leaned back as far as he could to look at Seth, instead of taking the easier (and much more logical) motion of turning around to face Seth. Roman couldn't see the mischievous joy in Dean's eyes (could only see the pale column of his throat), but he could hear it clearly warming Dean's deep rasp. _

_But Roman could see Seth's face easily. And Seth just laughed incredulously, shook his head with a resounding "absolutely not," brushed past them easily and walked straight out the door, proving unanimously that he was indeed the brains of the Shield._

So that's how they'd gotten here - shoulder to shoulder at Dean's door, Dean fiddling drunkenly with the lock until it released. Once it did, they shouldered each other, muttering and struggling to see who could get through the door first (because everything between them had to be a competition), sniping at each other and barraging through the door.

Well… that wasn't entirely how they'd gotten here.

There had been many shots of bourbon that had landed them here. They'd sat side by side on the bar stools, and Dean had motioned to the bartender to serve them up some _shit_ whiskey. But _fuck that, _Roman had covered Dean's mouth with his hand, called out for shots of Old Forester Birthday instead.

Dean had never forgotten where he had come from, but he had often forgotten where he was _now_, in a place of success. Regardless, Roman was not putting Dean's choice battery acid anywhere _near _his lips. And he wasn't going to let it near Dean's, either.

As Dean had processed the fact that Roman's hand was covering his mouth like some petulant child, he looked at Roman in some furious incredulity (although the heat of anger in his eyes melted almost as soon as it had become prevalent). Dean slapped Roman's hand away and went to speak. Roman was quick to interrupt (with a begrudgingly fond smile), "You'll thank me later."

Dean huffed and turned his focus to the small, full glasses of caramel liquid in front of them. He spared Roman one more agitated glance. "You're just lucky I didn't spit."

But he picked up his glass, swiveled in his seat to face Roman, and held his glass up to him nonetheless. Roman smirked and touched glasses with Dean. And with that, they both threw their heads back and greedily swallowed the sweet, spicy liquor.

And there had been so many shots after that. Shot after shot after _shot_. They _had_ to match each other shot for shot. _Obviously_ they had to.

As the doors closed at the bar, he and Dean had stumbled out. Dean's place had been closer to the bar, and in their overwhelming drunkenness, that is of course where they landed (rendering Roman's phenomenal hotel room _completely_ useless).

And _that_ is how they'd gotten here.

Now they finally manage to get out of each other's way. Roman flops on Dean's couch. Dean's rummaging through _something, _and as he rustles about, cursing under his breath, Roman lets his head loll back. He looks around Dean's place (using his eyes only… he can't move his head). It's clean but minimal (this surprises Roman; it's not touched by any of Ambrose's chaos). There's a certain lived-in quality about the furniture, as if Dean couldn't be bothered to upgrade even as his bank account grew exponentially. Roman sighs. He likes that. It's fitting.

"Ha!"

The peace is gone just like that.

Roman somehow picks up his head, and Dean's arms are spread open in a prideful display as he walks toward Roman, balancing two shot glasses in one hand, the fingers of his other hand wrapped the around the neck of a Knob Creek (much more respectable) bottle.

Roman groans and sinks further into the couch. "You've _gotta_ be kidding me."

Dean sets the bottle and glasses down on the coffee table, grins at Roman. It puts his dimples on full display, much to Roman's pleasure, and it could be described as _playful_ if it weren't for some shadow of darkness clouding his eyes.

Dean pours the shots, fills the glasses liberally (it's almost overflowing… Roman is both overwhelmed and thirsty at the sight). Dean stands up straight, one glass in his hand, brings the rim to his lips. "What's the matter, Rome? Chicken?"

He winks slyly at Roman before downing the shot, throwing his head back in full enjoyment. Roman watches Dean's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and he can almost feel the sweetness going down his own throat vicariously. Dean lifts his head back up straight, licks his lips clean in a swift motion with a dark pink tongue, and Roman feels something in his spine tingle.

Dean leans down and picks up the other shot glass with one hand. He leans over the coffee table and braces one hand against the back of the couch, right next to Roman's head (this should have been an awkward movement, but it's not. Dean moves about like gravity isn't a factor).

As Dean hovers above him, Roman remembers Dean's question (no, let's face it, _challenge_). And in his admitted state of unpreparedness, Roman borrows Seth and Dean's lingo. He chuckles, "_Fuck_ no."

Dean smirks, his dimples showing even brighter, lips curling upward in a motion that can only be described as evil. _It's beautiful on him. _

Dean's grin grows larger. He holds the glass to Roman's lips, murmurs from somewhere deep in his throat, "Good. Then drink up, motherfucker."

With that, Dean tilts the glass just so, and Roman has no choice but to tilt his head to accommodate. The funny thing is that he can't look anywhere except for Dean's eyes as he swallows down the addictive heat. (Since when is Knob Creek spicy? Roman's never noticed that before, but as he swallows it down he feels like he's on _fire._)

Dean tilts the glass just a little bit more, murmuring a soft and mildly degrading "that's it," (his voice is like smoke and that shiver stirs in Roman's spine again). Dean's pupils dilate as Roman swallows the final drops.

Dean pulls the glass away from Roman's lips, but he hovers there just a moment longer, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. His lips quirk upward again and there's something in his eyes, equal parts warm and predatory. Roman can't look away.

"See?" Dean's eyes flicker about Roman's face, settle on his lips for a second too long before coming back to Roman's eyes. "You're fine. Another shot wasn't going to kill you."

Dean pushes off his arm and comes to his full height.

Roman laughs and shakes his head, sinks deeper into the couch. He wasn't entirely sure that was the truth.

Dean spins on his heel, and Roman can't help but marvel at Dean's grace. It's shocking. It's _impressive_ - with the amount of alcohol Dean has drunk tonight, Roman is surprised that Dean can even walk, nevermind _glide_.

Dean starts walking away from Roman, down some corridor, but he stops before he leaves Roman's line of vision, looks at Roman from over his shoulder. "I haven't shown you my new toy yet, have I?"

_New toy?_

Some still-sober part of Roman recognizes that he should find this entirely unsettling.

But the rest of him can't catch up to that right now. He's warm and relaxed and as curious as he is skeptical. He signals the negative, and Dean smirks at him briefly before leaving the room.

There's the sound of dials turning and doors opening and doors closing _too loudly_ and _Christ, can't Dean do __**anything **__quietly?_

In the bustle, in this Dean-less wait, Roman looks at the bottle in consideration.

What Dean strides out holding makes Roman glad that he did not have a mouthful of whiskey right now. He surely would have spit it out.

"Who the _fuck_ let you get a gun?" And Roman winces even as the words leave his mouth; he's been hanging out with Seth and Dean for far too long.

But really, language should be the _last_ thing he's concerned with.

And why is he more exasperated than he is startled?

Roman sighs. "Dean—you need to get rid of that. If someone catches you with that—"

"Relax…." Dean drawls, twirling the gun around one finger with some thoughtless nimbleness. Roman holds his breath. "I own this baby legally." He starts walking—_strutting—_ toward Roman. "And breathe—it's not loaded."

Roman breathes out, runs a hand through his hair, watches with some lazy rapture as Dean steps closer to him. Dean presses a foot to the side of the coffee table, carelessly kicks it across the carpet (but more importantly out of the way).

Roman looks up at Dean, an elbow on either knee. Roman lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. "I didn't know Nevada's gun laws were that lax."

Dean chuckles. "They're not. " And that devious grin again. "But Utah's are."

Roman laughs again, and this time he finds it truly humorous.

(And dear God, he _really _shouldn't. The last person in the world who should have a gun is Dean.)

But this is just so typically Ambrose; Roman can't help but feel some demented warmth blossom over his heart. "So you own this legally. _In Utah_."

Dean smiles (a small smile, just lips). It could be a foreboding expression, but there's something benign in Dean's eyes, something fond.

Dean leans down to a crouch in front of Roman, rests his elbows on his own knees (Roman's not sure if this mimicry is intentional or not). Dean licks his lips, shrugs one shoulder. "Technicalities."

Dean gives the gun one final spin; it lands in his open palm. He looks up at Roman, unblinking, all charm and blue eyes and dark blond eyelashes. "You can touch it if you want."

Roman raises an eyebrow at Dean, hears a million different interpretations in his head. Dean raises an eyebrow right back at him. He looks down at the gun in his hands, gestures to it with his eyes, holds out his hand in offering.

Roman's eyes are drawn to the gun (to the shape of Dean's hand underneath it). Roman doesn't know much about guns, but he knows it's a revolver. It's a dark grey, antique and vintage looking. The barrel is long (longer than what he's seen on most revolvers) and thin. There's no grip padding, just metal (smooth and cool as he runs the pads of his fingers over the expanse).

"What do you think?" Dean's voice is surprisingly soft, sounds far off.

Roman doesn't have to think. He can't help the smile pulling at his lips. "I think it suits you."

But he doesn't look up. He watches his own fingers, slides them over the sleek barrel, along the interesting curves of the cylinder.

Dean laughs. It's soft and deep and warm. Roman immediately wishes he could hear it more often.

"This one's special, you know." His fingertips join Roman's on the gun (though they don't touch). He skims his fingers over the cylinder. "Most revolvers only have five chambers. This one has eight."

"Mmm," Roman hums, releases the cylinder to see for himself. He thumbs over each of the chambers, feels its sharpness against his skin. "I see."

"It's not loaded. But it could be."

And _that _gets Roman's attention. His head snaps up. He meets Dean's eyes. He sees amusement but everything else is entirely ambiguous.

Dean's lips quirk upward. "What do you say? Up for a game of roulette?"

Roman's mouth moves for a few moments before anything comes out. Finally, a breathless huff of laughter, "You _can't_ be serious."

Dean's smirk doesn't move. He raises his eyebrows. "Dead serious."

Roman glares at his at his choice of words. Dean's smirk spreads to a full smile.

"C'mon, Rome," Dean purrs, looking down briefly, eyelashes resting against his cheekbones in a way that makes Roman forget to breathe for the second time that night. He looks back up at Roman, the blue of his eyes going darker as his excitement grows less repressible. "It's no secret that you and I have been stepping on each other's toes for the last few months. Let's settle it once and for all, hmm? Whoever scares first… _scares first_."

Roman laughs incredulously. "Settle it by _killing _one of us?"

Dean shrugs and rises slowly to his feet. "There's only a 1 in 8 chance of that happening. Whadda ya say, Rome?" A hard glint in his eye. "Chicken?"

And Roman should be above this (Dear God, he should be _soaring _above this), this trivial show of masculinity. He should be stronger than to take this bait, this bait that could easily end with either one of their brains splattered all over the floor.

But he's never been good at resisting these kinds of challenges. And he's drunk and bristling—bristling with some delicious fire, blood pumping hot all throughout his body, and he wants _in. _

"No." Roman's response is late. His throat is dry.

Dean is beaming.

Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out a single bullet. _It looks heavy_, even pinched between Dean's sizable fingers. He opens the cylinder, gives it another spin. (_Fuck, that's loud _and that bastard is smiling… he can't even contain his joy). Dean snaps the pieces into place. _That's loud too. _

Dean winks at him, "I'll do the honors."

Dean breathes in, releases the safety with the flick of his thumb, holds the barrel to his own temple. His hand is steady, but Roman notices the fine hairs on his arms standing at end. He wonders if the same is true for the rest of Dean's body.

Dean's finger depresses.

_Click._

Nothing.

Roman can hear himself sigh, indubitably relieved that Dean is still standing in front of him in one piece.

Dean breathes out, his entire being lax and… _euphoric_.

Dean breathes in another deep sigh, the sound so deeply pleasured that it floats in the air, sinks into Roman like some magic haze.

Dean spins the gun in his hand, holds it by the barrel, offers the grip to Roman. Roman almost laughs. _A gentleman at that. _

And as he brings the barrel to his head, he's somehow less nervous than he was when he was watching Dean. Dean stares down at him, captivation written all over his body. Roman doesn't look anywhere except Dean's eyes. They're oddly grounding, the heat in them encouraging, soothing.

Roman curls his finger around the trigger. Presses. Is surprised by how much the trigger resists his pressure. He licks his lips; they're suddenly dry again (and somehow it's more about Dean's gaze than the cold metal pressing to his skull).

Depress.

Click.

_Nothing._

Roman's not feeling fear. He's just feeling hot… hot all over. Is he sweating? He must be. He can't sit still. He feels like he's on the brink of losing solid form all together. And it's fucked up. This—this _situation_ is so violent (God, he _hates _that word, _situation_; thinks it's such a cop out—a word that describes _nothing. _But how else do you describe _this?). _It's such a brazen act of foolishness; proves absolutely _nothing. _

But for the first time in _months _Dean isn't looking at him with resentment in his eyes. His eyes are tender, _doting_ on Roman, proud of him.

"That's fucking beautiful," Dean murmurs, leans down to take the gun from Roman's hand, fingers brushing his in the process.

Dean straightens back up, goes to lift the gun back to his own head. He's towering, _towering_ so far above Roman, so far that Roman has to crane his neck to look at him.

It's completely unacceptable.

With a soft growl Roman reaches out, grasps Dean's belt buckle in his fist. He yanks roughly, and Dean falls heavily into his lap. Dean's breath catches softly; he looks at Roman in some thrilled shock. Roman shivers at his weight, at his _heat_.

Dean doesn't fight the position, but rather shifts, gathers himself, balances so that he's straddling Roman. He shoots Roman a smirk, one that isn't entirely comprised of arrogance.

Dean puts the gun back to his head. Still no sign of fear, but his breaths are shallower (Roman notices this by the way Dean's shirt moves). Roman can smell the excitement rolling off him.

Depress.

Click.

_Nothing. _

Dean shivers, leans back limply, trusts Roman's arms to brace him from falling too far. Roman watches the goosebumps rise all over Dean's flesh. He's close enough that he can see this now. He should have been all along. Something this foolish, this _thrilling_ begs intimacy.

Dean pulls himself back upright, looks at Roman. His cheeks are flushed. Roman swallows and goes to pull the gun from Dean's hand, but Dean pulls his hand away, just out of reach.

If the situation were anything but what it was, Roman would have rolled his eyes at this, would have found it childish and possessive.

But Dean looks at him from under his eyelashes, cheeks only going a deeper red, his breathing slowly getting heavier.

On anybody else, Roman would have described the way Dean is looking at him as _shy_. Dean blinks quickly a few times, some rare softness in his eyes as he stares at Roman—stares _into _him. "May I?"

_Oh._

Dean licks his lips and Roman is officially distracted, nods his head dumbly. Dean smiles, and it's all the reward in the world.

Dean lifts the gun to Roman's head, strokes the barrel affectionately over his cheekbone before pressing it to Roman's temple.

Roman stares into Dean's eyes (and it's like he _exists_ there now, like he's existed there all night). He watches the subtle flicker of blue irises as they focus on different parts of his face. He watches his pupils expand and contract, is dying to know what's going on in Dean's head that's causing the movement.

Roman waits for it. Waits for the _depress, click, (hopefully) nothing_ to follow. But it doesn't come. Dean just keeps studying his face, moves the barrel with some curiosity, traces his nose, his brow bone.

And how this has become almost _relaxing_, Roman has no idea. He murmurs fondly to Dean, "What?"

"You have freckles. I never noticed that before."

He traces Roman's nose again to illustrate his point.

Roman smiles a little. He speaks softly (he feels like he'll disrupt something if he doesn't). "Yeah, you can't really see them unless you're up close."

Dean smiles, slow and sly. Licks his lips. "I like them."

It's officially flirtation, the first outright case of it, unmasked and unmistakable.

Roman has to smile back. It's contagious. Even as Dean presses the barrel back to his forehead.

Dean smirks, inhales a deep breath again. He's managed to reign in his excitement well, focus back to the task at hand. Roman is impressed, proud even.

Dean's eyes take on their usual sharpness. "But back to business."

"Back to business," Roman agrees with a slight nod.

Dean squeezes.

Depress.

Click.

_Nothing_.

Halfway there. It's starting to feel statistically impossible.

Dean grins, and _goddamn him, he's __**glowing**_**, **_luminescent _like some angel of war. He laughs, presses the gun to Roman's hand.

Roman doesn't like these odds, but he's in too deep to stop now. Dean's eyes are too _alive_ and he can't even begin to imagine telling him no.

Roman lifts the gun to Dean's head. Dean's worrying his bottom lip now—he can't leave his lips alone—he gnaws them a deep pink. Roman studies him for any sign of fear, for any sign that he wants to _stop_. But crazy motherfucker, it's nowhere to be found. He's vibrating in exhilaration, anxious and impatient.

Dean licks his lips. And his mouth just looks so goddamn wet. It's crude but Roman can't help himself. He pushes the barrel of the gun past Dean's lips. Dean's groan is guttural; his spine curls and he grinds demandingly against Roman. Roman's control quickly disintegrates and he's fucking Dean's mouth with it. He swears he can feel Dean's tongue flushed against it as he pushes in and out, watches it come back dark and shiny (fucking spotless) with spit. Dean's lips wrap around it. Tighter, tighter, tighter until his lips flush red. Roman can feel it in his cock, can feel himself _throb_ in tandem.

Roman goes to pull the gun out of Dean's mouth, more for his sake than Dean's (he may just explode right out of his pants. He may just explode period). But Dean grabs the muzzle with his teeth, growls and holds it to himself, and it's like trying to tear prey from the mouth of a Rottweiler.

Roman can't hold in his groan as Dean sucks it deep back into his mouth. He shoves a hand up Dean's shirt (soft, worn); Dean's muscles quiver and twitch under his touch. He pushes his hand further up Dean's body, bites his own lip as Dean's shirt bunches around his arm, exposing pale, smooth skin to him. He presses his hand to Dean's chest. His heartbeat is_ racing_—_thud, thud, thudding _so hard that Roman shakes with its force.

Roman doesn't think. His finger snaps hard on the trigger.

Depress.

Click.

The closest thing to a breath that he can drag into his lungs.

The let out.

_Nothing_.

Dean moans again and Roman's eyes fall shut for just a moment. Beautiful, reverent _nothing_.

He opens his eyes again. Five out of eight. That's plenty of tempting fate for one night.

He tears the gun from Dean's mouth. Dean resists but Roman grunts and pulls harder, clumsily locks the safety back in place and chucks the gun across the room. Roman grabs Dean's face, pulls their foreheads together harshly.

"That's enough," Roman growls.

Dean laughs breathlessly, buries his hands in Roman's hair, _pulls_, dives in to nip at him, nowhere in particular. Roman holds him off by the hair, is reduced to responding Dean with gravelly, angry sounds emanating from the back of his throat.

Dean's grin is cunning, even as he rubs his nose against Roman's, growling some affectionate sound, even as his hands loosen in Roman's hair, go from pulling to stroking.

Neither of them move to close this last gap.

And this is what it has come down to, in this game of one-upmanship, is who will be the first to kiss to whom. And how does this work? For this surely is a competition too: a battle of wills. Who wins here? Who loses? Is it the first one who gives in and kisses the other? Or is it the one who _gets kissed_ first?

Dean pushes Roman backward with his forehead, keeps pushing (he's always_ pushing)_, as if he's going to push them both right through the couch. He moves in close, pants with exertion against his mouth. Dean grins at Roman devilishly, eyes heavy-lidded. "What's the matter, Reigns? Chicken?"

_The fucking __**nerve**__. _

"No," Roman growls. (And you know what? It all seems like a victory to him right now). He drags Dean in roughly, kisses him hard. Dean tastes like bourbon and gun-metal. Roman hums in the back of his throat. It's perfect; it's exactly how Dean _should _taste. Dean makes rough, satisfied noises against his mouth, rocks them back and forth, reminds Roman that he's anything but passive in this (he always needs to remind Roman of that, doesn't he?)

And goddamn it...

Roman wouldn't have him any other way.


End file.
